


The Portrait

by CozyMittens



Series: Seasons at Cherry Tree Lane [4]
Category: Mary Poppins (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyMittens/pseuds/CozyMittens
Summary: The irony of the situation seemed clearer every day.  George Banks had been shocked to say the least when Michael announced he wanted to be an artist.  It was the portrait that had swept all George’s doubts away and brought him firmly around to Michael’s side.Now Michael was turning his back on that life and going forward with George’s original plan—a safe and suitable job at the bank.  Jane shook her head.  She couldn’t think of anything more likely to make Michael miserable.
Series: Seasons at Cherry Tree Lane [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738504
Kudos: 6





	The Portrait

The small gallery, full of exquisite and colorful pieces, reminded Jane of a jewelry box. Henry Norman the proprietor had financed the business through Fidelity Fiduciary Bank and Jane’s father had overseen the loan. It had been a valuable connection when Michael had set up as an artist. Mr. Norman was more than willing to offer advice and had sold several of Michael’s works. This morning he was engaged in arranging a set of small drawings on one of the back walls.

He looked up from his work when the bell jingled and smiled when he saw Jane enter. Like several men of a certain age he was half in love with Miss Banks. “Beautiful,” he thought, “like a Pre Raphaelite painting.” Jane would have been horrified if she knew. In her mind she presented a business like and serious front to the world that had nothing to do with those willowy ladies, dressed in flowing gowns who languished about on the canvas. Fortunately, Mr. Norman kept his thoughts to himself merely acknowledging Jane’s presence and turning his attention back to the drawings.

The drawings were pastels of various animals doing human activities. A pair of storks pushed their baby in a carriage down a shaded street. An elephant and a giraffe dressed in their best clothes had tea, the giraffe’s tie knotted under his chin and hanging down his long neck. A pompous whale sat in theatre balcony filled with water while drops fell on the scandalized creatures below. A tiny family of hedgehogs went to market, one apple filling the mother’s string bag.

“Charming aren’t they?” he said to Jane. 

“Very,” she agreed, “They make me want to smile. Will they go in a nursery do you think?”

“Maybe,” he said, “the nursery of a very discerning parent who recognizes quality when she sees it. More likely to the private study of a someone who needs to remember what it’s like to be a child. I owe your father two favors one for giving me the loan for this place and another for introducing me to this particular artist. That said, how may I help you today Miss Banks?”

“I need some advice about a frame,” said Jane. She looked down at the large, flat parcel wrapped in brown paper that she was carrying. “You see it’s a portrait and I don’t like what it’s in. I’d like something different but I haven’t a clue where to start.”

“Come with me,” said Mr. Norman leading the way to a small room behind the main gallery. “Let’s have a look.” He took the parcel from Jane and laid it on a table so he could carefully remove the wrapping.

Henry Norman’s breath caught as the papers came undone. “Did your brother paint this?” he asked.

Winifred Banks looked out from the canvas toward the viewer as if she had just seen her future. Not the middle aged mother that Jane knew and loved but the young Winifred that George Banks had seen that night so long ago when all his carefully laid plans for matrimony had been overturned. He was 25 and according to his schedule it was time he married. He had gone with his mother to meet the daughter of an old friend. The plan was to meet the young woman (whose name he couldn’t remember) and, if she was suitable, begin a proper courtship. While waiting he had looked across the room where a cluster of men were gathered around a slim figure dressed in a blue gown. Just then they parted and the girl looked up and met his eyes. Most improperly and without an introduction, a smitten George Banks had crossed the room and joined the group. By the time his mother returned with the daughter of the old friend he had claimed a dance and the honor of escorting Winifred into dinner.

Jane and Michael had heard the story many times over the years. Michael had painted the portrait for George’s birthday. He had used old photographs and his father’s memories to create the likeness. Somehow he had caught the soft curves and colors of the young woman’s face and combined it with the maturity and wisdom of the mother he knew. Winifred was at once young and old and ageless as she looked from the frame toward the man she would marry. 

George had cried when he first saw it, embarrassing himself and his family who didn’t know how to react to this unexpected display of emotion. He had insisted that the portrait be hung over the fireplace in the library where he would see it everyday. Because it was so inextricably tied to both her parents Jane had asked for the portrait and taken it with her when she moved into her flat.

“I wish I had seen this before,” said Henry Norman his eyes fixed on the canvas in front of him. “Miss Banks I must speak frankly to you about your brother because I am worried about him.”

“What do you mean,” asked Jane.

“Michael has been struggling for months now, wondering if he has it in him to be an artist.”

“My sister in law’s death has affected him deeply,” said Jane. “I don’t think he’s been himself lately.”

“No, this started before she was ill. There was a particularly savage review of his last show and he took it very much to heart. I won’t go into the details but the reviewer called him an accomplished hack who could only paint pretty pictures to hang over a sofa.”

Jane looked at Henry Norman stricken. “He never said anything,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“He came to me for advice and I told him that bad reviews came with the job and that all artists had to learn to live with them. The trouble was that there was a grain of truth in the review and he knew it. Michael is an accomplished draftsman and a brilliant copyist. He could make a good living just drawing shoes for catalogs and jars of cold cream for lady’s magazines. I don’t say this to disparage him but there is more to art than just being able to draw or paint. Right now his work is technically good but something is missing. It’s as if a Beethoven sonata is being played on a piano roll. All the notes are there but there’s no human soul involved in making the music.”

“There are many with his talent that would be content to just paint pretty pictures. That he’s aware and trying to push himself is actually a good sign, which I tried to tell him. He wanted to know what I thought he should do, and I told him he should continue with his illustration and commercial work. He has to make a living. However, when he did do a painting or a large work he should do it for his own enjoyment and not try to make a masterpiece or something to sell. I was hoping, you see, that he would remember why he wanted to be an artist in the first place and approach his subjects with the excitement of a child.”

Henry Norman looked at Jane. “If I had seen this painting I could have been much more positive. This is brilliant. He’s never shown me anything of this quality before. When did he paint this?”

“Ten years ago,” said Jane. “Is that important?”

“I think it is. It shows that he was on the right track at the beginning of his career and that somehow he lost his way. What has he done recently?”

Jane thought a minute and realized that she hadn’t heard Michael talk about his work for quite a while. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I don’t think he’s had time. I know that he’s been overwhelmed with all that’s happened and the bills have piled up. He took a part time job at the bank to make ends meet.” 

Henry Norman looked concerned. “I haven’t seen him in months,” he said. “And what he brought in was older work that he had done the year before. I hope he hasn’t stopped painting.”

“Michael wouldn’t stop painting,” said Jane shocked. “He’s worked so hard. He would never give it up.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said Henry Norman. “I hope you’re right, but I’ve seen it happen before. He was already struggling and with the loss of his wife he may be too discouraged to ever paint again.”

Jane was already worried about Michael, and Henry Norman’s warning added to her concerns. Finding all of Michael’s painting gear stuffed in the attic was much more upsetting than she let on. Worse yet was the condition they were in. In the middle of a project Michael was apt to let his materials get away from him, but once done he was a stickler for cleaning them up. The dirty brushes and forlorn heap of paint tubes, canvas and stretchers told her more than any words could about his state of mind. No, Michael was not painting anymore. Henry Norman might well be right.

Over the next few days Jane’s mind returned to the portrait being fitted with its new frame at Henry Norman’s gallery. The irony of the situation seemed clearer every day. George Banks had been shocked to say the least when Michael announced he wanted to be an artist. He’d done pretty well at staying quiet and letting Michael make his own decisions. Winifred and Jane had been very proud of him. It was the portrait that had swept all George’s doubts away and brought him firmly around to Michael’s side. 

It was George who insisted that Michael and Kate stay at Number 17 so that Michael could rent a decent studio. And when Kate, rather embarrassed, explained that it wouldn’t be just the two of them he offered to redo the nursery in whatever colors she chose. George spent the next years bragging about his talented son and spoiling his grandchildren. It was the happiest that Jane had ever seen him. Now Michael was turning his back on that life and going forward with George’s original plan—a safe and suitable job at the bank. Jane shook her head. She couldn’t think of anything more likely to make Michael miserable. 

Late Wednesday night she returned to her flat and found a note from her landlady slipped under the door. Henry Norman had telephoned earlier in the day and asked if she would call him back on a matter of some importance. First thing in the morning she returned his call. It was a very important call and when she hung up the phone she went immediately to see Michael.

“So you see,” she explained, “I thought you should know at once and I’m more than willing to sell the portrait if it will help.”

Michael was still dazed. “He offered how much?” he asked again. When Jane repeated the figure Michael shook his head to clear it. “I can’t believe it,” he said.

“Mr. Norman said the buyer was very eager and if we wanted we might even be able to finalize the sale in the next two days.”

Michael sat for a few moments in silence. “No, he said finally, I can’t ask you to do that. I know how much the portrait means to you—well to all of us. I don’t think I could ever be comfortable thinking of Mother’s likeness hanging in someone else’s house looking out at someone we didn’t know.”

“It’s not really Mother,” said Jane with a smile.

“No, you know what I mean. The portrait was painted for Father. She’s supposed to be looking at him. Besides Jane, it’s not enough to pay for the entire loan. I’d still have to come up with the balance and there’s no way I could do that before Saturday night. The only thing to do is find the share certificate and, if we can’t, it’s not the end of the world.”

Something had changed in Michael. He seemed able to focus on the immediate situation better than he had in months. He was starting to think clearly again rather than think too much.

He grinned at his sister. “If the children and I have to live on the streets, I’ll set out my hat and draw pictures on the sidewalk. I should be able to earn a few pennies a day.”

Jane smiled back relieved. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’ll stay with me at my flat. The sidewalks are much nicer in my neighborhood.”


End file.
